


A CI5 Christmas Tale

by NonnyFan



Category: Meta - Fandom, The Professionals
Genre: M/M, Meta, Responsefic, Unauthorized Sequels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-12-18
Updated: 1996-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:42:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonnyFan/pseuds/NonnyFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is an older Pros story written in 1996 in response to a debate about fans rewriting the endings of other fan stories without permission. Today, some fans consider this  to be "responsefic" and to be part of fan culture. Others do not. Because the story is context specific, it may not resonate with readers. More context can be found here: http://fanlore.org/wiki/Alternate_Ending_to_Catharsis</p>
    </blockquote>





	A CI5 Christmas Tale

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older Pros story written in 1996 in response to a debate about fans rewriting the endings of other fan stories without permission. Today, some fans consider this to be "responsefic" and to be part of fan culture. Others do not. Because the story is context specific, it may not resonate with readers. More context can be found here: http://fanlore.org/wiki/Alternate_Ending_to_Catharsis

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

THIS IS A FREE STORY -- AND AS SUCH, IT'S VALUE IS PROBABLY MEASURED BY HOW MUCH YOU PAID TO RECEIVE IT. PLEASE FEEL "FREE" TO COPY, SHARE, CUT, SPINDLE, OR MUTILATE IT AS YOU SEE FIT. AFTER ALL, IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHO I AM, HOW CAN YOU ASK MY PERMISSION?

OH, AND ANOTHER NOTE: THERE ARE TWO ENDINGS TO THIS STORY. BOTH WILL PROBABLY OFFEND SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE, SOMETIME. SO REMEMBER TO BE CAREFUL OUT THERE.

THE FOLLOWING WORK IS PURELY FICTITIOUS. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ANY PERSON, LIVING OR DEAD, IS PURELY A COINCIDENCE.

 

A CI5 Christmas Tale

by Anonymous

 

Twas the night before Christmas and Bodie was cold. Sitting in a cramped flat for three days, watching the snow fall, mothers and sniveling children scurrying beneath the window, and the house across the street standing empty. No sign of IRA terrorists. No sign of criminal conspiracies.

No sign of drug dealing, blackmail, prostitution, or robbery. No sign of anything that could even raise a heartbeat.

Bodie shifted in the chair -- the cold bastard wouldn't spring for two chairs, so they had to take turns sitting - one watched from the window, the other sat on the unsheeted mattress that served as a bed. Of course, the mattress was a single, which meant only one could sleep at any time.

Bodie sighed loudly and glanced over his shoulder to make certain Doyle hadn't heard. Doyle's moods were chancy and this latest assignment hadn't helped. But Doyle ignored him, chewing on a pencil stub as he erased the cross word puzzle. He was reworking it yet again.

"Isn't that cheating?" Bodie inquired, striving for a neutral tone.

Doyle barely flickered, then scrubbed some more. "Since when have you been worried about cheating?" He did not look up. "Or are you worried Father Christmas is watching and you'll miss your pressies?" Doyle's shoulders shook with silent laughter, amusement at his own wit making the puzzle waver beneath the pencil.

Bodie snapped back to the street, depression settling. "I *like* Christmas, Doyle. Just because we're stuck here, doesn't mean we can't enter into the spirit?" The last worlds held a plaintive note and he winced. Oh yeah, Doyle was going to rip into him now.

Instead, Doyle stood, tossing the puzzle on the mattress and stretched. His flannel shirt had been unbuttoned to its third hole. The jeans threw his hips and thighs into well defined relief. Bodie stared at Doyle via the window's reflection. Tensed, he waited, dividing his attention between the street below and the pale cast of his partner. Doyle started about the room, waving his hands through his hair. They hadn't showered in days. A toilet and a basin were the only creature comforts they merited.

  
"Fuck it all," Doyle said, twisting his upper torso, loosening knots, wandering over to the chair. Bodie felt a soft brush against his skin and then Doyle was leaning close, whispering in his ear. "You're right, I guess. Never did like Christmas. Too much cheer, too much forced joy. And underneath all that white--"

Bodie interrupted "--there's still the dirty streets. Yeah, I know Doyle. " He shut up, watching Doyle pace across the room. The shoulders had a definite sag, the face was clouded with guilt. Trying to forestall the inevitable moroseness, Bodie offered the cup as a distraction. Doyle ignored it.

"I'm sorry, Bodie. We wouldn't be here if I hadn't pissed off the bastard. " Doyle never could avoid taking full responsibility -- even when it was all his fault. Bodie kept his mouth shut and let Doyle ramble. "Of course, if it'd been Cowley, he'd have eventually forgiven us. I mean, he assigned us some choice assignments when we stepped over the line, but he knew when to stop. This -- Dessie - has been keeping it up for two months now.  It's -- it's -"

"Unprofessional." Bodie supplied, the anger slipping past his good intentions and into the chilly air. He sank deeper into the chair, feeling the binoculars biting into his palms.

"Exactly." Doyle sighed. "And dangerous. Christ, Bodie. We haven't had a day off since it all began. My reflexes are shot to heel.. You're barely standing on your feet. And all because I pointed out he was wrong. Fucking fascist."

"'M not barely standing, Doyle. I'm sitting on my feet." Bodie hoped to divert Doyle before he began the wind-up. Doyle's nerves had been chancy ever since they'd nearly lost the girl in the hostage negotiations. The fact that they hadn't slept for days before being tossed into that choice assignment hadn't even crossed Desmond Rexton's mind. Or maybe it had. Bodie felt the cold settling into his chest and coughed.

Doyle kept pacing. "Well, whatever. He's the kind of man CI5 was chartered to stop. Men who abuse power under the guise of authority. Why Cowley would --"

"Cowley's dead, Doyle." Bodie interrupted. "And you'll be soon if you don't stop worrying. Come on, sunshine. Sit down." Bodie stood, offering his seat. Doyle had crossed the room three times in the last minutes, fizzling with anger and indignation. He stopped, wild eyed and then inhaled sharply. His hands were trembling and Bodie doubted he could hold his gun, let alone fire. Doyle walked to the chair, gripped the binoculars, and sat down. Bodie stood back from the window so he wouldn't be seen. They remained there silently, watching the snow fall briskly past the window and into the night. What a way to spend Christmas eve.....

*******************

They'd taken Cowley's death hard. The organization had soldiered on under Brian's temporary leadership, but he wasn't Whitehall. For that matter, he wasn't even Cowley's official successor. The poor Scot had believed he was indestructible and had never named a second-in-charge, And into that vacuum had crept Desmond Rexton. He hadn't been too bad at first. Few changes had been made -- the agents had barely seen or heard from him for a fortnight.

Then Rexton had called a general meeting.

The agents grumbled as they filed into the largest conference room. It was too small, did not have enough chairs, and many had been called away from critical operations.

"What a waste of manpower." Doyle spoke loudly, from the seats he had snagged. Bodie smiled. He missed the old man too.

"Keep your seats, gentleman." The silver haired man who pushed his way through the crowd could barely be heard. Susan heard him though and made a grimace of distaste. Count that vote as a loss, Bodie thought. Looking around at the mass of agents, none of whom had moved, he could count a few more losses.

"Ahem, well, gentlemen. Gentlemen, please. Thank you." Desmond Rexton stood, his head barely poking over the podium. Cowley had towered, his voice cutting through even the most insolent chatter.

"Gentlemen!" The noise gradually quieted. "I want to welcome you to the new CI5. I've had the opportunity to meet with many of you privately and I am aware that many of you have a good number of suggestions on how to improve CI5. To start things off , let me explain that the days of hierarchy and military exclusiveness are over. I welcome suggestions and hope to improve CI5 efficiency while creating a collegial -- may I even say familial -- work environment And as my first announcement, I will be forming an advisory committee. It will be filled with the best and the brightest men who have demonstrated their commitment and dedication to CI5. The advisory committee will meet on a daily basis and will consist of the following fellows..."

Bode glanced over at Susan and saw her scowl deepen. He almost missed his name. He whipped around in shock, catching Doyle's snicker from the corner of his eye. Most of the other names were new to him -- raw recruits, who'd barely had a chance to learn how to tail a lead, let alone understand how to run an organization as complex as CI5. Glancing over at Doyle, he saw his cynical smile echoed. Oh right, some advisory committee. And him the token senior agent. Just ducky.

Desmond -- the name fit the man perfectly -- droned on. Bodie listened with half an ear, itching to be back in the field. The obligatory remarks about good fellowship, the promises that CI5 would be better under his leadership, how he was really a very easy man to get along with, and how he welcomed the opportunity to share this experience as they move forward together into a new era.

Bodie, who had listened to more speeches, more pontificating than most over his varied career, suppressed a shudder. Well, maybe it wouldn't be that bad. He'd survived worse. That one commander in the Congo who made them sing the French national anthem every morning because it strengthened their aim. The troop leader who shouted commands using biblical references had been worse. You never know if "Lead me not" meant to attack furiously, or to retreat to the next valley. Come to think of it, neither had the troop leader. His men had left him behind one night. No, Bodie smirked. He'd be okay.

Bodie turned to Doyle to share the joke, but was caught by the set still, the whiteness of anger blossoming. He must have missed something. 'What is it?', he mouthed at Doyle. 'Later', Doyle mouthed back, anger etched clearly on his partner's face.

He caught up with Doyle in the crush, gripping his elbow. "What is it?"

Doyle motioned him into the VIP lounge and shut the door. Murphy and Lucas were there, the same grim set to their mouths.

"I understand the no hierarchy shite, but to say CI5 is supposed to be *fun*. " Murphy shook his head in disgust. "Since when is killing and sweating and shitting in your pants in fear *fun*?"

Doyle opened his mouth to respond, only to hear another voice reply.

It was Jeremy, one of the new recruits. "Come off it, Murphy. He's just trying to lighten things up. You'll have to admit that the Cow was a bit grim."

Doyle ignored Jeremy, answering Murphy instead: "We've got problems. And the whole idea of making CI5 an independent organization -- to better focus solely on CI5 charter issues -- that's sheer suicide. How many leads have we obtained from working with other agencies? How many lives will now be lost because *he* wants to set up a new fiefdom." Already, Desmond had acquired an unique emphasis.

Jeremy pouted. He was not popular because he borrowed other agents newspapers. Never would buy his own -- said he couldn't afford to on his junior agent's salary. Seemed to think the paper was an entitlement. "I'm not the only one who thinks this. Mr. Rexton has worked extensively with us newer members in formulating a plan that will bring CI5 back to it's original charter. Stop wasting our time on extraneous issues."

"Like what," Bodie fired back, enjoying Jeremy's eyes widen. He always had that effect on the younger man. Age and treachery, Bodie thought, and smiled coldly.

"Like creating a positive approach to criminal intelligence. Too much effort is focused on destroying criminals, rather than preventing criminal behavior at its source. That bleeds over into our personal lives. Too much criticism of other agents. It stifles creativity and reduces efficiency."

"So that explains your inclusion on the advisory committee." Murphy's voice dripped with suggestion, causing the younger man to blush. Jeremy soldiered on. "The advisory committee is a first in CI5 history. For the first time, the decision making process is open to anyone who wants to join. If you want to be on the committee, all you have to do is ask."

Bodie began pouring tea, wondering how he'd ended up the list. He never volunteered for anything. First rule of survival.

The agents argued back and forth. As they filed in and out of the room, the opinion seemed evenly spilt. The "old timers," as they were called, thought "Dessie" was full of shite, the newer recruits welcomed the introduction of a kindlier and gentler leader.

Bodie decided it didn't matter, as long as Dessie didn't get between them and their work. He could not have known that he'd be wrong.

******************

The meetings were boring. Filled with moments of admiration, applause for almost every idea, and intense wrangling over the most inane issues. Still, it was mostly harmless. And sometimes even fun to listen to grown agents fall over themselves being nice. No, Doyle had it all wrong.  Niceness couldn't hurt anyone.

 The agenda that day involved a vigorous discussion of a major personnel infraction. Two agents, long rumored to be very 'close' friends, had had a falling out. Blows had been exchanged and, as usual, there was a woman at the center of it. Of course, there had been an internal investigation and the preliminary report did not look favorable.

"I say again, I've met these men and they wouldn't behave that way. CI5 agents do not turn on their own." Dessie had been repeating himself for days now. He had met every counter-argument with more argument.

For once Bodie wished that Ross could sit in on the committee to cut through the psycho babble. As for those few agents who disagreed with Dessie -- well, the advisory committee was not the rubber stamp group that some agents feared.

Tweedman was speaking and Bodie forced his attention back to the table. Tweedman was new, a bit unpolished, but clearly had no fear of disagreement. He'd soon learn.

"Look, Mr. Rexton. Drake was pushing Baker too hard. And then there was the girl, Allison, in the middle. No wonder Drake snapped. It wasn't as if he beat Baker to death."

Dessie was looking more and stressed. He was clearly growing tired of hearing opposition to his point of view. "These men are not supposed to be fighting each other. They should be fighting crime -- fighting the system -- fighting death. You obviously don't understand that they would never resort to violence to resolve personal differences."

They'd been wrangling over what constituted "appropriate" agent behavior some time now. Dessie stood abruptly and began handing out sheets of paper.

"You are wrong in what you think is acceptable behavior for these men." Bodie squinted at the sheet of paper. It looked somehow familiar.

Dessie moved to the head of the table and rocked back on forth on his heels. His voice deepened and his features grew grave. "As you can see, I've prepared my own concluding scenario to the investigatory report. This is what should have happened."

Startled, Bodie looked down at the sheet again. Beneath the original title the following words appeared: "An Alternative Ending. This Ending was written without the original author's consent or knowledge." Bodie blinked, his brain circling in on itself. An alternative ending to an investigatory report? What was Dessie up to?

Dessie was still speaking. "I've meet with some of the more expert members of this committee and we've decided that committee members may create alternative recommendations to existing reports without obtaining the original report writer's permission. If this bothers any of you, simply do not read the alternative endings we present here."

There was some grumbling at this. Many agents had slaved hours over their reports, presenting them with some pride to the committee, only to be now told that their recommendations, their visions, their opinions no longer mattered and could be changed with the stroke of a pen.

Dessie raised his hand. "Gentlemen. Please wait. We've also agreed that it would *not* be appropriate to alter the reports of any committee member without permission. After all, since they sit in on these meetings, their permission is so easy to obtain." The grumbling subsided so quickly that Bodie wondered if he imagined it.

Silence fell as they skimmed the alternative fragment. A few members smiled and nodded heads in agreement. Bodie had just started to read, when the buzzer went off. "Until next meeting gentlemen," Dessie called and brought the meeting to a close.

Bodie sat in the VIP lounge, fingering the paper. He had read the 'scenario' a few times. The two agents had had an argument -- but it quickly ended when Baker returned to his flat. Drake had followed and the two men had had long discussion and apparently resolved their problems without violence.

Bodie tossed the report onto the table and looked around to complain. He was alone. Few members of the advisory committee ventured into the lounge.  
Dessie did walk through halls, whistling cheerfully. He would stop by the VIP lounge to "chat" with his men. Bodie picked up the report and walked over to  
the waste bin. As it fluttered from his fingertips, a sudden wicked smile spread across his face. Doyle would love this. Bodie retrieved the paper and walked it out of the lounge. He slipped the report into Doyle's folder where he would be certain to read it. Whistling, Bodie wandered back to the lounge for a quick kip.

The boom of voices woke him. Groggy, he sat up too quickly and bumped his nose on someone's elbow. Eyes stinging, he looked around to see the lounge crowded with agents. There was a buzz in the air. He rubbed his nose and shifted on the settee, as Stuart sat next to him.

"Here, Bodie. Have a sip." Stuart always carried a flask of something spirited to revive him. The perils of not having a partner to keep you warm on long stakeouts.

"Ta, Stu. What's the fuss about?" Bodie swallowed quickly before Stuart regretted his generosity and took the flask away.

Stuart giggled, causing Bodie to choke. "Someone tried to rewrite my report -- you know, I was part of the investigative unit on the Drake matter."

Bodie goggled, pretending surprise. Stuart shook his head laughingly. "Well, it's not like it's the first time anyone's professed not to like my opinion. Or my writing. But it's got all the other agents in an uproar." At that moment, a sharp voice broke, clearing the room of all other sound.

"Damn it! Who does he think he is? The writer has no integrity. He worries about how CI5 looks because two agents were tussling in the parlor! Well how will it look if it's found out that one of us altered an official report?" Doyle was looking wild eyed, hair curling fiercely around his face, framing it with a haze of crackling red.

Bodie groaned. God, Doyle could be so dense sometimes. And so undiplomatic. Jeremy stood next to Doyle, an answer poised on his lips.

Dessie stormed into the room, pushing his way through the crowd. "Who did this!? Who did this!?"

The agents backed off to make room, some edging toward the door. Bodie looked at them contemptuously. He ignored the thudding in his chest and the faint uneasiness of his stomach. He glanced over at Stuart. At least Stu didn't seem too upset.

Bodie looked at Dessie. Pity the same could not be said for the fearless leader of CI5. Dessie elbowed his way to the center of the lounge. "The committee's discussions are confidential and private. How dare you discuss matters that were said in a confidential setting. And you call yourselves agents! Loose lips all of you!"

Doyle sneered. Bodie tried to lurch to his feet, but somehow got tangled in the carpet and fell back. Bodie knew Doyle was going to break Dessie's neck at any moment -- and then how'd CI5 look?

McCabe came between the two men, clearing his voice for emphasis. "Look, all I asked was whether anyone knew about the alternative report. I mean, if someone in CI5 is up to something --" McCabe paused, blushing, his face neatly matching his dark red curly hair. "Unethical, shouldn't it be brought to light?" Bodie snorted. McCabe could be so disingenuous at times.

Dessie whirled, addressing the room at large. "Unethical!! Since when has it been unethical to hold a different opinion, to voice an alternative point of view, to exercise your own vision? First, this report," he snatched the paper from Doyle and waved it over his head. "--this report is clearly labeled an unauthorized, alternative ending. There is no chance for anyone mistaking it for the real thing."

Some of the men nodded their heads in agreement. Bodie glanced at Doyle and saw only stoniness. "Secondly, you're missing the most important point. Someone--" Dessie rotated, glaring at each face accusingly, "--breached the sanctity of the committee. Someone has violated the very heart of what it means to be a CI5 agent. Someone.." Dessie choked and stormed off, closely followed by Jeremy. Bodie sunk into the settee, suddenly loosing any desire to move from his secluded perch.

Bodie felt Stuart pry his fingers off the flask. "Well, have to be off."

Bodie looked pleadingly at Stuart. Stuart smiled, patting Bodie's shoulder. Don't' take it too hard, Bodie. I've seen this before and it'll--"

Dessie's voice came piercingly into focus from the hallway. He was shouting at Jeremy, every word drawn with precision. "Well at least I had my say before they found out it was me who wrote the fucking thing. Fucking hypocrites wouldn't have listened to anything I said if they'd known it was me."

There were gasps from the assembled agents and then Doyle burst out laughing. The laughter soon grew as more and more agents joined. But underneath it all, ran an angry undercurrent.

Dessie's head reappeared through the doorway. His lips were stern. He realized he'd been overheard. Jeremy was tugging his arm, trying to calm him. He shrugged off Jeremy's touch and moved into the room. His voice had risen a notch and Bodie wondered when it'd start shattering glass. "I don't regret stating my opinion. It was clearly my genuine feelings. But I will make one thing clear." Dessie pulled himself to his full height. He reminded Bodie of a puffed toad. "I did nothing wrong. I shared my opinion to a private, closed group of like minded agents. And, I see nothing wrong in providing an alternative outcome to any report."

Someone hissed from the back of the room. "Then why did you say that committee member's reports could not be rewritten? One rule for your select cronies and to hell with the rest of the world, eh?' Bodie couldn't identify the speaker, but wished he had the flash again so he could offer a toast.

Dessie barely paused to acknowledge the point. "I said that committee members could not change each other reports because I wanted to stop them from whining -- but only to keep the peace on my committee." Bodie saw Doyle's mouth hang open and wondered if he wore the same stupefied expression. Quickly, Bodie looked around for committee members, but could not see clearly, so close was the press of bodies. He heard a neighbor mutter. "Wonder if he'd say that to his committee? Wonder what they'd think of the light of their life now?"

Bodie decided to remain sitting until the room cleared. He just hoped Doyle had remembered not to name any names in his rush to judgment.

Predictably, the next committee meeting was a study in pandemonium. It began with two members standing, feet shuffling, to praise the alternative report and to pledge support for Mr. Rexton.

Tweedman didn't waste time making his thoughts known. "It's not right -- rewriting events. Falsifying reports. "

Dessie did not make eye contact, keeping his eyes fastened on his doodling.

"I think it's just shocking," another voice piped in. It was Kevin Crater, an agent recently acquired from MI5. "This is the last time I'll submit any of my reports to you, Mr. Rexton, for your perusal."

This did provoke a response from Dessie. He slammed his pencil to the pad of paper. "I think we've heard enough on the subject matter. The discussion is now closed. Jeremy?" Dessie turned to his left and peered over the agenda notes sternly. "What's the next item?"

"Well, just wait one moment, eh! Why should this discussion be closed?" Bodie started to applaud the speaker, Jervis Masterson, but stopped his fingers before they had even twitched. The utter silence in the room had sent him a clear warning signal. Masterson had also just recently joined CI5. Before this meeting, he had very little to say. He was known for his quiet way of speech and his shyness in person. Something had stirred him to speech, however -- and by the flash of his eyes, it was clear he was not going to be silenced.

Dessie tried to ignore him, and moved to the next topic 'CI5 Christmas decorations.' Masterson plunged on. "I say, sir. Why should we not discuss this matter? Because 'I say so is not a sufficient response' -- particularly when the person saying it is so, is the subject of the response." A few coughs rattled the air, and Bodie felt a burning need to visit the loo. He was held firmly in place by his fascination with unfolding events.

"You've been warned, Mr. Masterson." Dessie had started to turn puce, his hands flushed to the finger tips with righteous anger. "Now," he continued, "I think we should consider a small nativity display in the main lobby....."

"I don't know, sir." Jeremy offered. "In America, nativity displays are prohibited in public areas because they might offend." Jeremy, ever helpful to point out the pitfalls of offensiveness, once again dredged a few more useless facts to the table.

"He's right, sir" Masterson replied. "In fact, American displays have been held to violate their first amendment -- the same one that guarantees freedom of speech." Masterson was grinning, clearly enjoying his interruption. "Still, I expect it won't make much difference, considering we're not Americans, this is not America, and CI5 is not a democracy."

The pencil clattered to the floor, followed by the chair as Dessie swung to his feet. "That's enough, Masterson. You're out. Leave immediately."

Bodie gave Masterson a sympathetic glance as the man gathered his papers. "Yes, sir. Shall I return all the reports to you now or later?" He held out the papers with one hand, balancing the other on the back of his chair.

Dessie sat down, dismissing Masterson. "That won't be necessary, Masterson. You can give them to the bursar when you collect your final pay." Bodie started, and peeked at Masterson. A quirk had passed the man's lips, before it faded. Then he nodded and quickly left.

A dark turning formed before Bodie; his field of vision narrowed and his breathing became harder. He'd never held to many ideals -- that he left to the Doyles of the world. He knew there was a time when disagreements could kill -- and any good commander would relieve a man who disagreed in the field. But this was no field, no street of fire. This was a bloody room, with pine knotted chairs, too much dust and fluorescent lights. And Dessie was no leader.

Bodie opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Dessie didn't want another opinion. Dessie wanted his opinion. And that was the hard, cold truth of CI5. He let the discussion of Christmas decorations wash past him.

********************

The next few days were quiet and Bodie hoped the worst was over. Dessie had sworn off the VIP lounge -- much to the relief of those agents who found all the shouting too loud to kip in the afternoons.

Bodie whistled, stretching his legs, to fetch another cup of tea. He saw Doyle stamp out of the lounge only when he collided with Bodie, causing hot water to slosh over his hand.

"Dammit, Doyle! Watch out. You're positively lethal today!" Doyle looked up and Bodie's heart lurched as he saw the unique mixture of pain and anger that meant Doyle was in one of his moods.

"We're in for it now, Bodie. Me and my big mouth. Shit." With that, Doyle stomped down the hall, his shoulders hunched. Bemused, Bodie began to follow him when he saw Murphy gesturing from inside the lounge. Bodie entered, dumping his Styrofoam cup into a nearby bin.

"Tough break, Bodie. Maybe Dessie will calm down." Murphy had a concerned expression. He held out the duty roster. Bodie slid his eyes down the page -- 37 and 45 appeared on shifts for every day -- no Sundays, no holidays, no breaks for the next two months.

"He can't do this?" Bodie hated the plaintive note in his voice. Quickly he glanced around, relieved to see that only Murphy heard. Lowering his voice, he repeated himself more firmly. "He can't do this. And I think it's time for someone to let him know."

Murphy batted Bodie's hand away from the paper. "Christ, Bodie. It's not like we can strike or petition our grievances. We're security. That means, they've got our bollocks in the vise. The only way out......"

Bodie glared at Murphy daring him to finish. The agent swallowed his words. Bodie nodded and went to find his partner before Doyle added property damage to their list of woes.

 

*********************

Alternative Ending 1:

 The room was still cold. Bodie kept one eye on Doyle's motionless form in the chair and the other on the falling snow. He really did love snow. The cool touch on the skin, the way it caressed the lips , the way it floated softly from the heavens. His mother always said snow was the angels' kiss.

This last month had been brutal. His ribs ached where the car had slammed him over the bonnet. The scar on his arm from the knife fight had barely healed, and it still itched. Doyle was no better off. But the tough bastard stood his ground and never once voiced the thing that the wouldn't let Murphy suggest. Which meant that it was up to Bodie to pull them out of this mess.

Bodie moved around the back of the chair and crouched next to Doyle. Leaning one hand on Doyle's denim clad knee for balance, he kept his eyes fixed out the window. "You know, Doyle. We're going about this all wrong."

Doyle kept the binoculars glued to his face, making his words somewhat muffled. "You mean we should just storm the house and end this cat and mouse game?"

"Well that too." Bodie paused, waiting for Doyle, waiting for the warmth of his hand to sink through layers of denim, waiting for his point to filter through Doyle's exhausted brain.

The binoculars were slowly lowered and he heard Doyle take a deep breath. "What do you have in mind?" Doyle's voice still held depressed resignation, but it was mixed with the softer overtones of hope.

"Dessie gets off on power, right?" Bodie waited for Doyle's nod. "We get off on rebelling, right?" Another nod. "So, it's like a starter that can't spark the engine. You keep cranking and cranking and soon the engine catches --"

"Or the starter burns out." Doyle impatiently brushed away Bodie's hand and squared his shoulders. "So what's your point, Bodie?" He started to lift the binoculars again, but Bodie's hand caught his elbow and forced it back down.

"My point is, Doyle we don't have to drive the damn auto to get where we're going." Bodie smiled, forcing the pool of warmth from his middle into his eyes and through the space that separated him from Doyle.

Doyle blinked a few times and then breathed. "I guess we could walk?" He looked around the bare room and his voice grew in confidence. "Or we could catch a bus?"

Bodie wanted to shout with laughter, he wanted to shake Doyle.  
Instead, he kept covering Doyle's thigh, willing his emotions through fingers. "Yeah," he breathed back. "Or we could catch a bloody taxi...."

Doyle did laugh then, his voice tinkling though the cold room, sweeter than any Christmas bell, purer than a choir of angels. "Only if it's to my flat -- and you pay."

Bodie hugged Doyle, standing up to envelop his partner. As Doyle's arms surrounded him, he thought he heard the sounds of Christmas singing.

***************************

 

Alternative Ending 2

The room was still cold. Bodie kept one eye on Doyle's motionless form in the chair and the other on the falling snow. He really did love snow. The cool touch on the skin, the way it caressed the lips , the way it floated softly from the heavens. His mother always said snow was an angels' kiss.

This last month had been brutal. His ribs ached where the car had slammed him over the bonnet. The scar on his arm from the knife fight had barely healed, and it still itched. Doyle was no better off. But the tough bastard stood his ground and never once voiced the thing that he would not let Murphy suggest. Which meant that it was up to Bodie to pull them out of this mess.

Bodie moved around the back of the chair and crouched next to Doyle. Leaning one hand on Doyle's denim clad knee for balance, he kept his eyes fixed out the window. "You know, Doyle. We're going about this all wrong."

Doyle twisted a bit, his hands firm on the binoculars. Before he could speak, the RT blared to life.

"They're moving. Christ, he's down. Bode, Doyle , they're on the mo---" Murphy's voice crackled through the night air, his words blurring together with speed and fear.

Bodie slipped his holster over his shoulder. He sped through the air and down the steps, Doyle's fumbling tread close behind. They knew Murphy's last position -- from there it wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. Doyle had sent for back-up --- for someone to watch the alley. But Dessie had insisted on making certain his agents had a good Christmas, and so they were left on their own. Only Murphy and McCabe had left their holiday cheers to return without Dessie's knowledge.

Bodie ducked through the alley, feet slipping until he learned the measure of the slick ground. The darkness felt thick and close, sounds muffled by the snow. He heard a faint whuffling noise and took aim.

The blast came from behind, slicing into the night, causing the cords to stand out on his neck. He whipped around just in time to see Doyle's fall. He could not see the shooter -- he could not see the gun -- all he could see was white snow, his falling partner and the clear spatter of blood. He pointed blindly down the alley and fired three bullets in rapid succession. 'Let me hit something,' he prayed as he slid closer to Doyle. He pulled the RT to his mouth and keyed it open.

The crashing, thundering sound came, again from behind. The numbness spread with such force that he fell silently, blood spilling from his lips, choking his words. He could hear Murphy, faintly calling through the RT. He landed on his side, pinning it beneath him. He tried to roll, tried to reach out to Doyle, but his body was limp and unresponsive. More blood gushed and he struggled to breathe.

Doyle, he cried silently, but could see from the dark red stain that his partner would not answer. The snow soaked up the blood hungrily, turning itself into a bright mockery of Christmas reds. Bodie choked again and then lost all sight. Far off in the distance, he heard someone whistling. 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.' He could have sworn it sounded just like Dessie.

The End.


End file.
